


Queen Of Nightmares

by nesrynfaliq



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Court of Nightmares, Court of Nightmares sex, Established Relationship, F/M, I have No Excuse, Throne Sex, just a little bit, little bit of powerplay, sin - Freeform, this is just...a mountain of kinky-ish sin, with a smidge of hurt/comfort throne in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 00:56:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10776114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nesrynfaliq/pseuds/nesrynfaliq
Summary: The giant, angsty Court of Nightmares moriel throne sex no-one asked for but they’re getting. Mor summons Azriel to join her in the throne room after a session before she’s quite taken off her crown. Sin ensues. NSFW.‘Eyes on him she places her hands on his shoulders and presses down. “Kneel,” she dares to whisper to him, voice faint, caught, and hoarse, but he takes it for the command that it is and sinks to his knees before her.His lover. His partner. His queen.’





	Queen Of Nightmares

Azriel pushes tentatively into the main audience chamber of the Court of Nightmares, anxiety and anticipation blending in a coil twisting his gut. He had been waiting quietly, patiently, in the bedroom that was Mor’s by rights in this foul pit, though she rarely, if ever, made use of it. When the summons had come he had felt a pulse of fear spike within him, though Nuala had seemed perfectly calm when delivering her message.

His shadows had whispered nothing to him. He always had one or two set to keep watch over her most of the time. They didn’t report her feelings but they were on guard, if anything threatened her, if there was even a hint of danger, they would alert him. Everything had been quiet, however, peaceful. And yet...And yet he worried.

She’s never summoned him during a session before. He comes here because he knows that it helps her, gives her a small strength to know that he’s nearby, even if he isn’t in the crowd watching her hold  court. He’s not sure that he could do that, not sure that he could behave himself if his shadows gave him hint of even a flicker of derision directed at his partner. Still he makes sure that he’s close – especially when she has to remain down here as long as she has today. But he’s never been called on before and now...

The corridor outside had been quiet but somehow that had only heightened his sense of foreboding at what was to come. What is she dealing with behind closed doors? What nightmares can have proved too much for the lady of dreams to contend with?

The room he walks into however is completely empty. Save for the solitary figure lounging on the throne upon the raised dais at the top of the room. Mother preserve him but she’s beautiful. Terrible, when she wears this mask to torment those who made her childhood a living hell, but beautiful.

Twisted and woven through the silvery diadem she wears but otherwise free, the rich thick coils of gold he so loves running his fingers through cascade unbound around her face like a shining halo of light. Her body is all broad, sweeping curves, draped over the carved black marble of her throne. The chilling obsidian stone is at odds with the typically warm, radiant personality of its occupant. When she turns her head to face him, languid but cunning, the High Lord’s third in command, cruel, calculating, deadly, those rich molten brown eyes blaze like chips of fire-heated steel, fresh and glowing from the forge.

She studies him for a long moment, neither of them breaking the silence that echoes through the cavernous room, until she elegantly flicks her wrist, beckoning him closer. Azriel swallows. It’s unusual for her to keep this mask on longer than absolutely necessary. Typically the moment the doors snap shut behind the last monster the tension floods from her. Then she’s pulling the crown from her head, dragging a hand through her pristine hair to loosen it and ease the pain that comes from it being bound up so tightly for so long. The smile that comes to her lips by the time she sees him again is loose and easy.

For her to still be trapped inside this diamond shell of armour, unable to break free, even for him...It must have been bad. Worse than that. A shiver passes through him and he wishes that she had summoned here earlier, had called her up to the dais and had her stand at her side, wings fully flared, siphons glowing threateningly, daring any to so much as look at their queen too long.

“Morrigan,” he murmurs quietly, his voice low, intimate, personal, trying to draw her out of herself and back to him.

Her eyebrow arches pointedly at the tone and he pauses, studying her. She’s watching him keenly, waiting to see how he’ll respond, if he’ll allow this to proceed as she wants it to. He’s being given the choice, allowed to set the tone of how things will progress.

In answer he bows his head respectfully and murmurs evenly, “My queen?”

One corner of her mouth twitches up in the merest suggestion of a satisfied smirk.

She looks straight into his eyes – into his damned soul – as she says, “I need you.” The words slip from her tongue, so different to how he usually hears them, breathless, high-pitched, desperate, pleading. Now they’re clam, hard, utterly in control.

He holds her gaze steadily as he nods to her, “I’m yours,” he replies, meaning every breath that gives life to that promise.

“Come here,” she says – _orders_. Azriel obeys.

He approaches the throne at a measured pace, standing solidly before her, unable to help the instinct that has his wings flaring slightly behind him. He comes as close as he can and then halts, waiting, expectant.  A shiver goes through her, testing his composure when he realises that he can scent what she needs now, can see it in the way the lust-filled darkness blossoms in her eyes, obliterating the usually warm brown until he might drown in them.

One delicate hand reaches up and grips the front of his leathers. She guides him down until their faces are separated by barely a whisper of breath. Bracing a hand on the arm of her throne for support, Azriel waits again upon his queen’s pleasure. When she finally speaks they’re so close, the room so empty, his lungs craving the air she’s pulled from them, Azriel can _taste_ the desperation in the words that fall from those rich blood red lips. “Kiss me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. One hand slides around behind her head, fisting deeply into her thick curls, holding her steady. Then his mouth is on hers, instantly claimed by her as her tongue meets his, devouring him. He groans into the kiss, grateful for the anchor he has on her throne as she pulls him closer still, harder, demanding more from him.

He gives it to her. He gives her everything. She takes it all then demands _more_.

When they part they’re both panting and the scent of her arousal isn’t the only one he inhales with every ragged breath. She keeps her eyes locked firmly on his, waiting for him to interrupt it, to make her stop, to pull them out of this, to tell her that this is enough, that they shouldn’t go any further. He doesn’t. She needs this. He knows that she needs this. And Mother damn him but he needs it too.

Eyes on him she places her hands on his shoulders and presses down. “Kneel,” she dares to whisper to him, voice faint, caught, and hoarse, but he takes it for the command that it is and sinks to his knees before her.

His lover. His partner. His _queen_.

***

Azriel sinks down to the cold stone floor beneath them, one knee, then the other. His eyes remain fixed on hers the entire time, loving her, trusting her, obeying her, giving himself to her entirely. A heady flush of power floods through her system at the sight of this endlessly powerful male _kneeling_ for her, submitting to her. Minutes ago she’d had this entire audience chamber trembling before her – the lady of dreams twisted into the queen of nightmares. But that had been nothing, _nothing,_ to seeing this male, one of the most important people in her life, the other half of her beating heart, the answer to the gaping abyss in her soul.

Azriel. Hers. _Hers_.

Her mouth goes dry as he lowers his head in respect and at once her body tightens, knowing, somehow, that this crosses a line, a line she doesn’t want to be crossed, not even here, in her dark element. Reaching down she slides her fingers under his chin, tilting his face up again. The order in the gesture is clear – _look at me_. Azriel nods, understanding, obeying.

Panting hard considering all she’s doing is lounging idly on her throne, Mor eases back into the deep cradle of the marble, projecting an imperious, irreverent air, always so much easier when surrounded by this place. Anything less than the cruel, cunning armour she wears would let this court drag her back down into that pit they had thrown her into as a child – she refuses to let that happen, and the dark queen takes over her easily. Too easily.

Slowly, making sure Azriel’s hungry eyes are following her every movement, she spreads her legs for him. A low, rumbling growl echoes around the cavernous room as Azriel visibly struggles to keep control of himself as he stares up at her, chest heaving, gaze near feral. A shiver runs through her to see him like this. He becomes a monster all his own in here. And he belongs to her.

Trusting him to let her know when this becomes too much for him she winds her fingers into his thick, dark hair and guides him forward between her thighs. “I need you,” she says again. Like before, this isn’t an urgent plea from a soft, pliant lover, breathless in a blissful haze of pleasure. This is an order delivered from the lips of a queen and she expects it to be obeyed. Azriel doesn’t let her down.

He slides his hands beneath her legs and hooks them over his shoulders, careful of the wings he’s holding taut, half-furled, spreading her legs a little further, allowing him to settle more comfortably before her. She keeps her hand buried deeply in his hair, the other tightly gripping the clawed arm of her throne. She’s grateful for this when he draws her underwear slowly down her legs, gazing up at her with such ravenous hunger in his eyes she has to bite her lip to keep from whimpering.

Once she’s bare before him he pushes her dress up around her hips then ghosts soft, teasing kisses along her inner thigh. Snarling she tugs on his hair – a little harder than she’d intended to, though he doesn’t seem to mind- and hisses her displeasure. “ _Azriel_ ,” she spits out in frustration.

She doesn’t want to be teased. If she’d wanted that she’d have abandoned this mask and the crown and slunk upstairs with a soft, sultry smile on her face, winnowing them home and melting into their mattress for him. She doesn’t want soft and slow and reverent. She wants _worship_. She wants to feel his devotion to her with every touch, every kiss, every breath. He is _hers_. And this moment, this pleasure, belongs to her too. She demands it from him.

With another soft growl, Az braces his scarred hands on her hips and drags her forwards, burying his mouth between her thighs the way she wants. Mor _screams_ for him and she doesn’t give a damn who hears her as she writhes against his kiss. Usually he’s slow, tender, indulgent with her, building her up and up and up until she can’t take it anymore. She already can’t take this. He doesn’t waste any time with her, doesn’t ease her into it, doesn’t do anything but the things he knows drive her wild over and over and over again.

She was already tense and on edge and seeing him sink wordlessly to his knees before her, without question, without hesitation, with devotion flooding his eyes, warring with his lust, had driven her half-way to damnation before he’d even touched her. It had taken all her strength not to ease her own hand between her thighs in that moment to soothe the throbbing, desperate heat pulsing there. She’s glad she hadn’t – though Az’s reaction may have been...interesting. A smirk tugs at her lips at the thought of that but then his tongue is circling her clit just the way she loves and she’s gone. This, now, it’s too much, too much, too _much_ and _fuck_ but she still needs _more_.

Mor arches against his mouth, crying out wordlessly. She’d wanted this, she’d _needed_ , this, Mother take her but she’d needed it. This session had been bad, tearing open old wounds she had long since closed up and her body had been begging for a release, for an _escape_ by the end of it.

This is _everything_. His mouth feels like the soft brush of eternity’s tender fingers against her soul. His body bows before hers as though it’s a shrine carved to worship at her alter and destroy them both at once. She moans for him again and that seems to spur him on even further. He increases his pace and she writhes against him – a little more, just a little- She shatters for him, fingers pulling on his hair, back arching, the scream that tears itself from her throat one of ecstasy that so nearly crosses the line into agony – the last cry of a living body before it’s dragged into the waiting arms of oblivion.

Oblivion doesn’t come for her just yet. Good. She’s not done with this world, with what she’s dragging from it in this moment.

Azriel doesn’t stop as she rocks her hips against him, riding out her orgasm. Praise for that, for pleasing his queen, for knowing what she needs, drops from her lips and he groans softly in answer. Breathing hard she arches hungrily against his tongue. Not enough, not enough, not enough, not _enough._

“Az,” she snarls. He doesn’t stop, bless him, but she feels his attention snap to her. “I want your fingers in me,” she orders him, “ _Now_.” Azriel obliges her at once, sliding two into her slick heat in the first press. Her mouth falls open, nothing but silence pouring from her as she exalts in the _feeling_ of them filling her. “ _Fuck me_ ,” she whispers hoarsely, an exclamation of pleasure and an order all at once.

Azriel’s fingers pump in and out of her, the slick sounds of it causing pleasure to flare as much as the sensation. “ _Yes_ ,” she pants, voice strained with feeling, “Yes, good, like that- _Azriel_.”

It’s never been like this with him before. Sex with Az is always good- always incredible, in truth. But it’s never been accompanied with this flushed high of control and power that heightens every sensation dragged from her raw nerves now.

Usually he has to have teased her for hours, smiling and coaxing every soft whimper from her that he can before he yields to her desperate, breathless begging. And even when he does he teases her still. The tip of his tongue just circling the place she needs him, fingers dipping into her entrance, testing her wetness, commenting on it with light, subtle praise, making her want it just a little more before he gives into her.

Now...Now she makes a demand of him and he obeys her immediately, without hesitation. She loves his torment, loves the time and devotion he lavishes upon her in bed. Likely she would have been disappointed if he’d given in to her so easily then. But now, _this_...She’s never felt this before with him – with anyone. It’s more than pleasure, more than power, more than any feeling that’s ever coursed through her body before. It’s ecstasy. It’s gilding her battered soul with divinity. It’s pulling her body into new realms of feeling that shouldn’t be possible. It’s incredible, it’s exhilarating, it’s infinite, it’s _hers._

“Az,” she whimpers, “Az, _Az_ ,” she’s begging, she realises, begging him, begging herself, begging whatever cruel fates hold her strings on high. They all answer her prayer. She comes again, crying out his name loudly enough to imprint it upon the blackened, tainted walls that surround them – banishing the last, lingering ghosts of her demons that have stalked the darkness beneath this mountain for too long.

This time, Azriel coaxes her gently through her climax then eases off, allowing her body to recover. She nods to him, letting him know he’s done the right thing. Her eyes are closed, her entire body trembling. Vaguely, through the haze of pleasure still making her senses thick and slow, she’s aware of Azriel’s scarred hands gently stroking her legs, calming her.

Finally, she opens her eyes and looks down at her lover. He still kneels before her that achingly familiar hazel gaze filled with an intriguing combination of tender devotion and black lust. Once she can she rises slowly from her throne. Then she guides Azriel to his feet with an imperious flick of her fingers, and pulls him to her, kissing him deeply, reverently, tasting herself on his tongue.

****

Mor draws him to his feet and then her lips are on his, her fingers twining through his hair again and he’s sinking into her. That black intensity is still twisting in her, he can taste it on her tongue as she pulls him closer, demands more of him. She’s already come twice against his mouth and around his fingers but still it’s not enough for her. She lets out a little groan, pulling him in closer, deepening the kiss and demanding more from him. He gives it to her, gives her everything she asks for. She’s never been like this before with him and it’s intoxicating.

Drawing away, breathing hard, Azriel expects her to take his hand and winnow them back home again but she doesn’t. Instead she turns them until the backs of his legs hit the throne behind him. She jerks her head, pointedly gesturing him into it and his eyes widen in shock. Shaking his head he moves away from it, “I can’t,” he murmurs quietly. Her throne, the seat of her power, her authority, he can’t take that from her, not even at her request, he-

“Azriel,” she says, voice hard and cold as the dark marble before them. She steps forward, pressing him back. “I’m not asking,” she purrs, her voice silken and smooth as it falls on his ears.

“Mor-“ he begins but her eyes flash, patience snapping.

“Sit,” she growls firmly and he finds himself obeying, finds himself sinking down onto the throne as she stands before him, triumph curling her lips into a smile.

The throne he sits on is one of many here in the Court of Nightmares. This one is Mor’s now, used only when she holds court here, but it was built for Rhys to use in all his forms and glory. As such it accommodates his great wings, shaped to give him the ability to spread them wide, flaring them to their fullest extent, unfurling every inch of them before her. A hungry, wolfish smile tinges her lips as she watches him slowly spread them out.

She strides forwards, circling him slowly, a predator in her element, her dress fluttering around her, heels clicking on the stone floor with every step, the sound echoing around the halls. Her fingers trail lazily over the delicate, sensitive membrane as she passes, the nails she has painted an inky black scrape the surface of him, scratching away at his composure as he tenses, snarling. He was already hard for her having sunk to his knees and scented how desperate she was for him, having felt how wet she was for him but now... _Cauldron_. Idly, she moves to stand in front of him again, head cocked to one side, as though she’s trying to decide just what she wants to do with him.

She’s stunning. She stands over him, gazing down at him. Her skin is faintly flushed from the pleasure he’d coaxed from her, her eyes glazed with it, but still blown wide with lust. The dress she has on is a shimmering metallic silver silk that cradles her curves, pooling heavily around her, deep slashes in the chest and sides reveal a light chiffon accent – the same shade of sapphire blue that his siphons flare when they’re in use. The crown upon her head sits there as though she was born with it, as though she was always meant to be this burning, impossible creature. The light born from the darkness, the dreams that came to her in the midst of nightmares, the queen that was crafted like a diamond, forced down and down and down until finally she shattered...and then rose.  

Stepping forwards slowly, deliberately, she pushes into him until his back is slammed against the hard stone of the shaped marble behind him. Then she’s tugging her dress aside, pulling at the deep slit that runs almost to the top of her hip, parting the heavy fabric and baring her long, muscular golden legs as she straddles him, easing forwards into his lap. Azriel reaches out instinctively, his hands bracing at her hips, keeping her steady as she settles down on him.

He finds himself pulling her closer until their bodies are pressed flush together and he can feel the huff of breath against his cheek when she gasps slightly in surprise. Her poise recovers itself a moment later and then she’s smiling, winding her fingers into his hair, guiding his mouth to her neck. He does what she wants at once, his lips sucking gently, then harder, marking her, making her hiss, knowing the spots that she loves. A hand rises from her hip, cupping her breast through the thin blue chiffon covering her chest, shifting it down slightly to allow his calloused thumb to brush over the hard peak of her nipple until she’s groaning, stroking her fingers through his hair and encouraging him on.

“Azriel,” she murmurs, his name thick with pleasure and need as she shifts against him, groaning when she feels how ready he is for her, how much this is turning him on, how much he wants her too.  

Slowly, letting instinct guide him, he trails kisses down her neck until he reaches the bend of her shoulder. He nuzzles her gently for a few moments then, when she gives a soft, coaxing tug at his hair, he bites her. It’s gentle, carefully controlled, barely leaving any mark at all but she growls, something pulled to the surface with the short burst of pain flaring through her.  

Her hips grind down against him and he murmurs her name, head falling forward onto her shoulder, mouth opening in a silent moan as she reaches down between them, stroking him through the dark material of his trousers. She pants a little, breathing becoming heavier as she wraps her arms around his neck, bracing herself as she moves over him. “Good,” she praises him softly and he feels himself tense beneath her. She rarely talks to him during sex, if either of them indulges in it it tends to be him, knowing that it drives her wild but...

“Did you like what you did to me, Azriel?” she asks, her voice sharper, harder, not entirely hers. “Did you like making me come for you, taking me here on my throne?”

“Yes, majesty,” he murmurs smoothly, the words slipping easily from him, his hand tightening around her waist as she rocks against him more insistently. His eyes flutter closed, sinking into the soft pleasure that’s starting to build between them as her movements fall into a steady rhythm. Tension bleeds from his body and finds himself melting into her, nodding, urging more from her, whatever she wishes to give him, whatever she wants to take from him. He belongs to her.

She trails the tip of her finger slowly down his chest, letting it bump over every small silver fastening of his tunic on the way down. He’s not in his leathers today, instead opting for a fitted tunic, the kind Rhys tends to favour when he comes to the Court of Nightmares. Usually when he or Cassian comes down here they do so in what would be considered dress uniform among the Illyrians. The black scaled armour fitting their forms, all of their siphons glimmering upon them. Today...Today he had come to support, not to intimidate. The shapely tunic clings to the lines of his body, buttoning high, covering almost every inch of him.

Clearly that isn’t good enough for her. Her fingers rise, working carefully at the catches around the collar, opening it up and allowing her to dip forwards, returning his earlier favour and kissing, sucking, marking, _biting_ , at him, making him snarl softly, fighting to keep himself steady on the throne and not surge up against her. She smirks, lightly praising him again for his self control and he closes his eyes, tips his head back against the cold stone, hand tightening on her hip, trying to anchor himself to _something_.

She continues, fingers popping catch after catch on the tunic. He wants her to lose patience with it, wants her to tear the fabric from him and press their bodies together, kiss him, touch him, drag her nails over his skin the way she does when she’s desperate for him, clawing them apart to get to the soul within.  She insists on drawing it out however and pauses again. Her fingers brush tenderly over the tan skin of his chest, the tattoos that slink like dark shadows beneath the surface of him.

Unable to help himself he takes her hands and guides them back to his tunic, she loves the feel of her touching him but he needs more. Her eyes flash and a slow smirk tugs at her lips and he knows then that this is payback for all the times he teased her, made her wait just a little more, made her _beg_ for him. He growls softly but she silences him with a look and he forces himself to sit back, breathing hard, eyes devouring her.

Another piece of soft praise drops from her, slow and rich, honey smoothing over his raw agitation and he closes his eyes, gripping the arms of the throne as she starts to grind against him once more. She gently picks it open button by button, using her magic to unseal the ones on his back before letting the heavy fabric fall from him, casting it aside to the dais. Then her hands roam over him, lingering, as they always do, on the scars that mar the skin. The pauses are fleeting this time though. She needs him as badly as he needs her and it’s not before she’s leaning down, kissing him again.

His hand slides into her hair, drawing it into his fist and gripping tightly, guiding her movements a little more as they kiss. She moans softly into it, rocking harder against him and he snarls into it. The hand at her waist slides around to the small of her back and drags her closer to him, their bodies pressed flush together, not enough room between their bodies for even one of his shadows to separate them. She deepens the kiss in answer and he responds in turn by nipping sharply at her bottom lip when she draws away from him at last.

A curse spills from her lips and then she’s bracing her knees on either side of him, lifting up and popping the button on his trousers, working them off, his underwear dragged with them. Her forehead is pressed to his, her lips close, so tantalisingly close and he finds his mouth opening for her, asking for her. She notices the gesture and surges forwards as he kicks his trousers the rest of the way off, letting them join her underwear on the dais beneath them. Her tongue presses into his mouth again and he lets his head tilt back, letting her claim him as she wants to.  

“Azriel,” she whispers, breaking the kiss a moment before she wraps her hand around him, fingers trailing up and down his length, making his hips buck instinctively up into her, seeking for her, desperate.

 “ _Behave_ ,” she snaps at him, pressing him down. Though he can feel the growl vibrating through him still the word had been laced with satisfaction, a low purr of pleasure humming through her chest. She likes this. She likes that he’s desperate for her, she likes that she’s managed to chip away at some of his composure, likes that he’s so unhinged in this throne room with her in his lap, in that dress, that damned crown, those eyes feasting upon him.  

Her fingers slide slowly, deeply, into his hair as she strokes him and he groans, unable to help himself, closing his eyes and burying his face against the crook of her neck. “Look at me.” The words are soft, deceptively sweet, but he takes them for the order that they are and snaps his gaze back to hers at once. She smiles for him, approval gleaming in her eyes, shining like bronze burnished by the sun.

Shifting herself on top of him, lifting herself a little higher where she sits on him, she leans in and breathes in his ear, the words heavy with lust and heat, “I want you inside me, Azriel.” He groans, unable to help himself and nods faintly, urging her on, wanting that too, but she’s not finished with him yet. “I want to take you inside me, Az,” she purrs softly for him, darkness clinging to her words as her voice drops, “And then I want to fuck you until nothing exists for you but my name, my body, the feel of me coming around your cock.”

“ _Mor_ ,” he snarls out, needing every bit of self restraint he possesses to keep himself from pressing his hips up, urging himself into her. Close, she’s so close, and he can scent how desperate she is for him, can feel the tension in her quivering muscles as she fights to keep a hold of herself.

One of her hands cups his cheek gently, thumb stroking over the skin, lifting his head until he’s looking directly into her eyes again. “You’re mine, aren’t you?” she murmurs, almost idly, to him.

“Yes,” he whispers quietly to her, reverence lining every inch of the word as he gives it to her.

“And I am a queen here, am I not?” she demands of him, eyebrow arching.

“You are, majesty,” he agrees softly.

A soft, dangerous smile brushes her lips in answer to that. She strokes his cheek with the backs of a fingers, a possessive gesture, balanced by its tenderness. Then she leans forwards, kissing him deeply. Drawing away she drags her lips over his neck, his jaw, up to his ear. Tugging on his earlobe with her teeth as she murmurs quietly, “That makes you my prince, Azriel.”

“ _Mor_ -“ he whispers hoarsely.

He’s not sure if it’s in warning, admonishing her for the words that could destroy her if they were heard, or if in reverent admiration of her daring, of what she would offer him. A bastard Illyrian with no name, no standing, no honour, hands twisted and scarred by fire and shame – a lasting, eternal testament to his birth, his upbringing, the knowledge that he will never belong, will never be accepted or wanted or loved, burned into his flesh. A bastard Illyrian she’s already given her heart, her body, her life, her soul, her _love_ , already accepted him and wanted him, perhaps even needed him in a way he believed for so long that no-one ever could. A bastard Illyrian she would name prince, would cherish as a friend, would take as a lover, would claim as _hers_.

Sinking down slowly, she takes him inside her, lets him fill her, inch by inch, and he moans softly as she surrounds him, his eyes slipping shut. He forces them open again, needing to see her. She looks _divine,_ like this, a goddess given form as her body arches, mouth spilling open in pleasure, hair falling around them like a golden sunrise, radiant, perfect. His heart falters and his breath floods from his hollow lungs as she whispers the words again, settling fully on him, burying him deeply inside her, ecstasy in every reverent breath, “ _My prince.”_

****

Gently, she takes him in her hand and positions him at her entrance then she’s sinking down onto him, taking it slow, savouring every second of it as he fills her. Her back arches, her eyes fluttering closed and she grips his shoulders for support, nails biting into his flesh as she adjusts to the deep stretch of him inside her. Breathing hard she settles on him, fully sheathed inside her, then presses her brow to his, fingers winding through the soft hair at the back of his neck. “ _My prince_ ,” she whispers to him, her eyes opening to take him in, lips parted.

“Mor,” he breathes, his eyes full of wonder as he pants, as though he can’t believe that she’s real, that this is happening to him. She can’t stand that, can’t stand that some part of him still feels this way, uncertain, unworthy.

 “Look at me,” she growls, taking his chin between her thumb and forefinger and tilting his face up to hers. “Look at me, Azriel.” His eyes are on her but she wants his attention, wants every bit of focus on her as she starts to rock against him, pace increasing with every second, every word, “I love you.” He nods, mouthing the words back to her as a groan cuts off his voice as she grinds down onto him. “I love you,” she repeats, “I want you, I _need_ you. Do you understand?” He opens his mouth, his eyes darting down but she snarls, drawing his attention again, “ _Do you understand_?” she bites out, her eyes flashing.

“Yes,” he breathes out, voice rasping but firm, his eyes still fixed on hers.

She nods, sinking down onto him, letting him fill her up again and she groans, arching before him and coaxing a soft hiss from him. He kisses her neck, sucking on the spot where he’d bitten her earlier and she rides him. Hard and fast and intense she takes and takes and takes from him and gives nothing less than all of herself back in return. He accepts it all, his hips rising to meet every thrust once she’s fallen into a rhythm against him.

 Their bodies move together, trained by centuries of battle and court visits and quiet companionship. There’s no mating bond between them to bind them together but she doesn’t need one. They had found each other, in the midst of blood and fear and war they had found each other and they had clung on for five hundred years. She didn’t need her father to tell her who she should marry. She didn’t need the heir of Autumn to look at her and pronounce her his. She didn’t need any male in Prythian telling her what was good for her. And she didn’t need the damn Cauldron’s approval either. She had chosen him and he had chosen her. Five hundred years. Two world shattering wars, invasion and corruption and assassination and they had survived it all. Together.

She’s rough with him, not taking her time, not easing them into it. She wants him and she claims him and _fuck_ but it feels good. Their tender, intense love making has never left her wanting more, never left her dreaming of a moment like this, craving it but...But something in her had needed it. Something in her today had needed it, had needed him like this, giving in to her this way, in this place, after the nightmares that had surged up again, threatening to drag her beneath the surface and hold her there until she’d drowned.

This had been what she’d needed from him. Hard and fast and intense and he’d known that, had known not to try and gentle the storm that had taken her, but instead to ride it out with her. Her back arches again as pleasure starts to build in her core and she increases her pace again, slamming down on him as hard and fast as she can stand, losing herself in this, in the feeling that’s cresting inside her.

The noises that fall from Az urge her on, the soft groans, the gasps, the breathless whispers of her name that make it out between his urgent, panting breaths only urge her on even more. Azriel is rarely this vocal in bed with her and it’s making her lose more and more of herself. She lets it. She encourages him. This is what she wants, to lose that control, to shatter the mask that she can’t let go of, that she’s found herself clinging to, terrified of losing herself instead. She needs him to ground her, anchor her, remind her that it’s alright to let go, to come back to him, to give in to him, to this.

Close, she’s close now, so close. Moans and soft whimpers drop from her lips every time she thrusts down onto him and she just needs, just needs- “ _Azriel_ ,” she cries out, gripping tightly onto his hair, his shoulders, for support. Before the thought has fully formed inside her head his fingers are slipping between her legs, pressing over her clit in time with her urgent movements against him.

Panting desperately she lets her head fall forwards against his shoulder, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him against her, chest to chest, moving together. Her fingernails scrape desperately down his back, leaving long, deep red lines running along the length of his spine, following the column of tattoos set into the skin.

She wants to tell him how close she is, how good he is for her, how much she loves this, how much she loves _him_. But all she manages to get out is another long, low moan that might have been his name. She buries her face against his neck, kissing, scraping her teeth over the skin, biting down to make him snarl and thrust up harder into her. She’s losing her rhythm, letting instinct drive her as she slams down onto him again and again and again, chasing the release she knows is close.

Her fingers wind deeper into Azriel’s hair and she whimpers, biting her lip to keep herself from crying out again. “Say my name,” she commands him. She needs to hear it, she needs to hear him say it, needs it to be breathless and desperate as it falls from his lips, needs to hear him _beg_ her for it.

“Mor,” he rasps at once, ducking forwards and burying his lips at her neck.

She snarls in frustration, shaking her head and tugging on his hair. His fingers press a little harder over her clit and she has to moan, dragging her composure together enough, digging her fingers into his hair, nails scraping at his scalp. “Say _my name_ , Azriel,” she snarls at him.

He meets her eyes, holds her gaze a soft smile tugging at his lips as he realises what she needs from him. She slams down onto him again, rough and claiming, demanding that he do as he’s been ordered. His eyes flutter closed and his mouth falls open.

 “Morrigan,” he whispers and pleasure spikes along her spine, like a spark blazing along a lit fuse as her nerves erupt in flames.

“Again.”

“ _Morrigan_ ,” he bites out, a hint of a snarl colouring his own voice this time and she bites back a moan, not giving into him that easily, not yet.

Panting, swallowing hard, struggling to control herself, close, so close, so close, so close, she says it once more, “Again,” she orders him, voice hoarse, breathless and high pitched.

He opens his mouth to reply but falters, groaning, biting at her neck instead and she snarls her displeasure at having her command ignored. She increases her pace, wraps her arms around him and bites out, “ _Faster_.” This time he obeys her, his fingers pressing harder and faster over her clit making her arch her back and scream for him again. Her nails scrape down his back once more and he growls as she feels blood bead underneath her fingers.

 “Az-“ she grates out, afraid she’s gone too far with him but his only response is to thrust up into her, hard, urging her to keep going but she forces herself to stop completely causing him to groan, tilting his head back to rest on the back of the throne. “No,” she snarls, pushing down onto him, keeping him still, ordering him to remain in place. She’s so close, the ache already starting to pound between her thighs, begging her to move, needing to feel him inside her, needing friction, needing the release she was so close, _so_ close to. But she’s in control here, he takes what she gives him, no more, no less.

“Look at me,” she says softly, sweetly, her voice a gentle purr. He does as he’s told immediately. She smiles, “You can behave,” she notes, grinding against him just slightly, just enough to ease the throbbing between her legs, enough to tease him senseless. His lips part and his eyelids flutter but he remains looking at her, keeps control of himself otherwise. “Good,” she praises him, lifting and sliding down onto him, drawing out the movement torturously. He doesn’t move, doesn’t thrust up into her, doesn’t tear his eyes from her the entire time, though his hands clamp at her hips, gripping onto her, and she’s sure she’ll have bruises from his touch.

“Very good,” she pants to him and he shudders a little at the praise. She’s never done that with him before, never offered praise this deliberately when they’re in bed together. Usually he’s the one with enough composure and coherence to properly praise her but she’s never returned it like this, cool and deliberate. It tends to be breathless, desperate begging and he’s always been satisfied by that but this...This threatens to undo his iron self restraint.

She rolls her hips slowly against his again, holding his eyes, fingers anchoring themselves in his hair as she moves on him. “Are you going to keep being good for me?” she asks him, grinding gently, so gently down onto him. He nods but she growls her displeasure, stilling on him and tugging gently at his hair, “Answer me, Azriel.”

Azriel’s chest is heaving, his body straining beneath hers but his voice is level, almost like his usual composed self, “Yes, majesty.” Mor growls, the sound of it echoing around the throne room and then she starts to move again without warning, faster than before, pushing him down into the black marble and _taking_ what she needs from him.

 Prising her hands from Azriel she instead grips the throne behind him, bracing herself against it to give her the leverage she needs to fuck him properly. She moans, rolling her hips down on him, his fingers still moving between her thighs, both of them relentless as she _demands_ this climax from him. His head tips forwards, resting on her shoulder and he kisses and nips at her neck and she allows him, taking the opportunity to arch against him, tipping back her head, her eyes closing as she fights to keep her composure.

“Azriel,” she snaps harshly.

He raises his head from where he had it buried against her neck. Sweat beads in his hair and at the nape of his neck, she can feel it on her fingers as she drops one hand from the back of the throne to cradle him instead. His eyes are blown wide, full of lust and love and he looks so vulnerable, so raw and exposed as he submits to her that she has to bite down on her lip to keep from whimpering at the sight of it.

Slowly, when she doesn’t reprimand him for it, he leans forwards and sucks at her neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark. She arches her head back, giving him better access, maintaining her rhythm, feeling him strain under her, fighting to keep from giving back and pushing up into her. “Yes, my queen?”  

She bites her lip again, panting, stopping herself moaning. Her voice is harsh and rough when she manages to get it out, the voice of the queen of nightmares, “I want to come, Azriel.” He lets out a soft breath against her skin, nodding his head in agreement. “I want to come and then I want to feel you come for me.” She grinds down onto him, again, again, again, then manages to snarl out, “I need you to _make_ me come, Azriel.” He nods, his fingers sliding more swiftly over her, pressing harder, one hand on her hip, pulling her down onto him, harder, faster. She grits out another moan, tugging at his hair as they move together, her eyes clamping shut, her spine arching.

“Azriel, I love you.” The words spill from her, out of control because she’s close, so close. She bends down, burying her face in the crook of his neck, biting him softly, feeling him shudder beneath her as he fights to hold himself back for her.

Panting hard, Azriel leans in and presses his lips again her neck, letting them murmur against her, hot and smooth. “ _Morrigan_ ,” he whispers, pressing the words into her skin like a prayer cast into the waiting heavens.

She shatters as she slams down onto him once more. She keeps moving even as her body is seized with pleasure, keeps going, letting the feel of Az thrusting up from beneath her guide her and after another few moments she feels him climax inside her, groaning softly against her neck, drawing out her pleasure and making her moan his name again.

Something snaps in her as she starts to come down, stilling on Azriel. She keeps her eyes closed, pressed in close to him, breathing in his scent with every desperate gulp of air she drags into her lungs. Release floods through her and the mask shatters at last but it brings with it a sudden surge of emotion, pent up behind her walls for so long it now threatens to cripple her. Panting, she clings tightly onto Azriel as guilt and uncertainty and shame flood her system.

She wasn’t ready for this, for the crash that followed her climax. When he had walked in here all she had thought about was how much she’d wanted him and now...Now she finds that she needs him, needs him to hold her together, keep the fractured pieces of her self from crumbling to dust. She hates this, hates what they twist her into, hates when she can’t escape it because it’s all that’s keeping her from shattering entirely. But more than anything she hates that she let Azriel see it, that she let him get drawn into it, that she took it out on him, that she...That she dragged him down to suffer this nightmare with her.

Recovering finally, Azriel lightly jostles her, clearly wanting to get her out of here now that he’s sensed that she’s at last ready, near _desperate,_ to leave. But Mor remains huddled against him, her face buried against his neck, her breathing heavy and laboured as she struggles to compose herself. The mask has crumbled at last, drawn away from her, but she isn’t sure what it’s left in its place. As the relief crashes into her exhaustion tears at her, settling deep in her bones and she finds herself trembling. Only Azriel’s arms around her, the soft press of his lips to the top of her head, keeps her grounded.

Azriel’s fingers trail gently up and down her spine, soothing her, but she doesn’t raise her head where it’s pressed against his neck. Breathing him in, eyes closed, aware of nothing but him around her...It helps. After a few moments she flicks her wrist idly and cleans them both up with half a thought. He starts in surprise but still she doesn’t move, remaining on top of him, her arms around him, nuzzling in against him, pressing as close as she can.

“Mor,” he murmurs finally, the hand that had been gliding up and down her back moving to stroke at her hair, a flicker of concern in his tone.

She still doesn’t look at him, can’t, but she does tighten her grip around him and mumble thickly, “Hold on tight to me.” She has to get out of here, has to get _him_ out of here, where the lingering ghosts of what they’ve just done torment her, scrape claws down her spine and threaten to shred what little sanity she clings to right before his eyes.

He obeys and she closes her eyes tight, allowing herself to melt into shadow and darkness, drawing him with her as she winnows them home.

****

Azriel opens his eyes as he feels the hard, cold stone disappear around him. The feeling of Mor’s soft, warm body is complemented by the new gentle sensation he identifies as his pillows. She’s set them down on top of the vast four poster bed that they share together. Home. She’s brought them home. He gently kisses her, his arms wrapping easily around her, keeping her close to him, both of them still breathing hard after the pleasure that had claimed them both. He continues to trail his fingers absently through her hair, something she typically likes from him, a habit that he tends to fall in absently when she’s cuddling him.

 They’re home now, free of the Court of Nightmares, free of the mask she has to wear, the walls she has to build up around herself to protect herself from that place. He knows she returns a queen, knows that it empowers her, that none of the bastards will ever so much as touch her again but...He could never do what she does, could never picture himself returning to his father’s keep, forcing himself to endure his brothers, his step-mother over and over again, even if Rhys placed a crown on his head, called him king, and gave him permission to slaughter them all whenever he wished.

It takes something out of her, going back down there. Every visit leaves her raw and unsettled for a little while afterwards and today’s...It’s been some time since the court session ended and a while since he came to her and found her but still she remains pressed firmly against him, refusing to look up at him.

A part of him is afraid that she might be ashamed of what they did, of what her black desire drove her to do. He wants to murmur that it’s alright, he enjoyed it, it was what she needed, it didn’t hurt either of them, but then he realises that her shoulders are shaking and that she’s crying quietly, trying to muffle the sounds against his shoulders.

“Mor,” he bites out, his voice sharper than he’d intended in his corner. He sits up, jostling her slightly, though she clings to him, refusing to be dislodged. He lowers his voice, softly stroking her back, “Are you hurt?” he asks, fear flaring inside him. She urgently shakes her head and he relaxes.

“Are you-“ He breaks off, a small frown creasing between his brows, not sure how to say what he needs to. Finally, gently, “Do you need anything?”

“Please,” she manages after a long moment, “Just hold me, just, just for a minute while I, while I-“

He wraps his arms around her and draws her in close, rubbing her back with big, broad strokes of his hands, kissing the top of her head. “Take your time,” he breathes softly to her, “There’s no rush.”

She gets like this sometimes, if she’s had to spend a lot of time in the Court of Nightmares, struggling to shift the person they twist her in to in order to return to the one that she made of herself. All she needs is time to come back to him. The relief of the ordeal finally being over, finally able to return to herself can be overwhelming at times.

He understands that. He’s felt the same way before. Returning from missions that have required him to kill and torture. He pushes the soft parts of himself, the parts he has never let the darkness touch, the parts that only Mor’s sweet sunshine have ever gilded, down to a place where the horrors of what he does will never touch them. Sometimes it can be hard to find them again, to bring them back. Sometimes he disappears for a while, and the cold, black monster he became in order to protect the people he loves refuses to leave him.

 He’s glad he can be with her now, glad he can hold her, kiss her, stroke her hair and murmur to her, promise her that he’s here, that he loves her, that she can take as long as she needs. For the first time he’s glad that he understands, that he’s endured something like this, because it makes it so much easier to take her hand and gently guide her home.

 He had hated it before, when she had stumbled out of that pit looking raw and lost and hopeless. All he had wanted was to take her into his arms, hold her, perhaps take her flying if that had been what she’d needed. Instead he had bitten his lip, folded his arms over his chest and kept his distance. He had gone to her, tried to talk to her, but that hadn’t been what she had needed from him. _This_ , this is what she needs, and he may never stop being grateful that the Cauldron gave them long enough to finally accept one another and be together so that she doesn’t have to endure this alone any more.

After a long while she shifts against him and he loosens his arms around her, letting her sit up. He reaches up a hand and brushes the last of her tears away with the ball of his thumb. Her eyes are darting around the room, unable to focus on anything for too long and she seems embarrassed, lost for words. Reaching forwards he presses a gentle kiss to her lips, smiling, drawing her attention back to him, “I hope this isn’t a comment on my performance, Mor,” he huffs, mock serious.

As he had hoped this draws a soft, watery little chuckle from her and she swats him playfully on the nose, “Of course not, Az,” she grumbles irritably and he smiles again at her indignation.

She nuzzles in against him once more, huffing out a long breath. “Thank you,” she murmurs quietly, arching up and pressing a slow, deep kiss to his lips, “I, I needed this.”

He kisses her back, letting it linger, savouring her, “I know,” he murmurs, scraping her hair back and tucking it behind her ear.

She kisses him again, “I love you,” she whispers softly to him and he kisses her once more.

“I know,” he breathes again, feeling her smile against him at the acceptance. “I love you too, Mor.”

She just hums contentedly, settling in again, seeming exhausted and more than ready to sleep. However he jostles her slightly with his shoulder, nudging her up and making her grumble irritably in protest. He helps ease her out of her dress and she consents to crawl into one of his oversized shirts before she collapses down on top of him again, looking entirely spent.

“We’ll talk about what bothered you tomorrow,” he tells her quietly as he draws her gently on top of him again. She vaguely nods her agreement to this, yawning widely and he smiles again.

Lying back with her still cradled against him he eases blankets up to his waist and then carefully tucks his wings around them. Mor’s breathing has already deepened, her body going limp against his and he smiles, stroking his fingers softly through her hair, settling himself down too as he closes his eyes, breathing in her scent, letting himself settle to it, eventually joining her in sleep.

****

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!! Please leave a comment if you liked the thing.


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